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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019317">Bury Your Gays</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne'>allsorrowsborne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Words Only Get in the Way [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Love, Mentions of Violence, Prose Poem, Thoughts on Dying and Not Dying, soft?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:26:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief late night musings on endings. Loving and living and maybe not dying.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Words Only Get in the Way [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2309798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bury Your Gays</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/gifts">alicekittridge</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for alicekittridge, whose poetic prose is the stuff of dreams</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her in Barcelona, toes sticking out of sand, sand spilling over a navel, up and down the round of her belly, squealing as she tries not to drop the ice cream that she bought from the vendor who always patrols this stretch of beach.</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her in a burning building, a motel doused in kerosene, with beams crashing, wallpaper peeling, a black and white movie on the TV, eating popcorn, awaiting her hero who rides in to save her, credits rolling, just in time.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">A hatchet that injures and now is forgiven.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her alive and screaming, using up the air too quickly, as two then three then other fingers break down deep through loose-packed soil to reach a lover, doomed and desperate, who will die but not today, scrabbling in love and panic, as wanting fingers do.</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her deep in the cunt of the woman who loved her even though it seemed madness, held her even though it was deadly, chose her even though it destroyed everything normal that masqueraded as everything good.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">Stolen treasure, behind the cabin, X marking, found.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her in rural Connecticut, late October, ankle-deep in fallen leaves, crunching underfoot like seashells, telling stories of death for the first time, showing her woman the places of roadkill that once-upon-a-time she called home.</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her in a shallow grave, so when she rises - yes she rises - she will haunt you swift and certain, dripping dirt and ripped out entrails, through your kitchen, up your staircase, sliding under your bed in silence, reemerging whole at midnight, strangling you for your sad clichés, every night, over and over, until you cannot look in mirrors, sweep the carpet, until you sleep no more.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">A bulb in winter plotting revenge, the violent colors of spring.</p><p class="p1">---</p><p class="p1">If you’re going to bury her, bury her far in the future, in a grave where She is waiting, tended by the children of children who didn’t know what to make of her stories, but knew undying love when they saw it and swam in its rivers each Sunday, letting it wash them dirty and clean.</p><p class="p1">---</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not exactly sure what this is, but it came to me in the middle of the night, so I'm posting here to pass it along. Let me know if you like it. Thanks!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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